


Is it better to speak or die?

by tessaquayle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), Cybersex, F/M, Romance, Stakeout, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 08:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessaquayle/pseuds/tessaquayle
Summary: The agony and ecstasy of a virtual booty call.  A closet face-off.





	Is it better to speak or die?

“Gareth!  What’re you doing up so late?  It’s 3am over there.”

Vivian’s figure filled his screen and he watched her glide across it.  She walked barefoot in her bedroom, the zipper halfway down the back of her slinky black cocktail dress.  Head bent sideways into her clasped hands, she tugged an earring loose.

“I can’t sleep,”  Gareth fibbed. 

He had actually set an alarm to Skype with her. Nearly two weeks had flown by since they’d been an ocean apart and Gareth became addicted to his smartphone. He checked it obsessively, reached for it after every chime, searching for her name to pop up with a text or by a blue dot in the inbox. Every work meeting turned into an exercise in clock-watching, mentally calculating the time zone difference, wondering what preoccupied her that minute.  

He’d switched on the lamp on the night stand and shifted against his pillow. He raised a hand to rub his neck - the muscles ached from hours staring down at the device in his palm.

His heartbeat quickened at the sight of her, the sound of her voice. A wave of warmth flushed over him – a mix of desire, shame about the tiny white lie, and ruefulness at needing a pretense. Coyness had not been part of their courtship, but the distance had made him cagey.  The distance had brought his feelings into clearer view.

“Are you feeling okay? You know, you shouldn’t use your phone in bed. Not if you’re having insomnia.”

“I know, I just -"

She craned her neck toward the camera, interrupting him: “Is that stubble?  Or is that just the lighting?”

Gareth stroked his chin, lightly scratching it. “Stubble. I haven’t shaved the past few days.”

“It’s kinda sexy. Are you trying to grow a beard?”    

In the mirror that morning, he’d caught glints of silver in the patch of chestnut. “Not sure yet, d’you think I should?”

Vivian shrugged, her laugh echoing through the speakers: “I don’t know. It’s up to you.”

“What are you doing right now?”

She moved toward the screen, her image sharpening so that he spied a raised eyebrow and braced for a retort to his lame question.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting ready for bed.”

“Well, what did you do tonight?” he asked, curious, trying again.

“Just dinner with some girlfriends.” Arms crossed, she peeled off the dress over her head, revealing her bra and panties. When she turned on profile, he glimpsed the black lace spreading over the curve of her breast and barely covering her round bottom, a mesh triangle tip vanishing into the cleft. He imagined himself sitting at the edge of her bed, watching her undress. He felt his cock twitch and slid his right hand beneath the sheets and down his belly.

Gareth bit his lip and blurted out: “you’re beautiful.”

Vivian blushed and murmured: “you’ve seen this all before. Besides, shouldn’t you try and get some sleep?"

“I sleep better beside you,” he confessed. The screen became a blur of skin and lace as she plopped the laptop near the pillows.

“You can pretend I’m there, helping you fall asleep,” she flashed him a wicked smile as she crawled languorously onto the bed. “tell me what you want to do to me.”

He tightened the grip on his cock and watched her lips part like a centerfold in a dirty magazine. He wanted to be in her warm and wet, willing mouth.

“Touch yourself. Sink your fingers deep inside, like I would…”

“Pull off the covers. I want to see how hard you are.”

He obliged quickly, baring himself. “This is what you’re doing to me.” He slowed his strokes so she could seek her pleasure first, and came with a groan seeing her writhe, the edge of the sheet crumpled in her fist.

***

_Three Days Later_

“I really want to go to Blackwell’s tonight. Want to go after dinner?” Vivian scooted next to Gareth, the plastic folding chair squeaking on the linoleum of the old flat turned safehouse.

“Of course,” he sighed softly, hiding his disappointment. He’d much prefer to go from dinner straight to the hotel. They hadn’t shared a moment alone since her return. Gareth, Moneypenny, Bond, and Q had already arrived at Oxford for the stake-out when Vivian’s flight from New York had been delayed twice. He’d hoped at least they could’ve taken the train from London together. A daydream: his hand resting on her knee, her cheek brushing against his coat as the train pulled into the station, jolting to a stop.

“I love Blackwell’s!” Q exclaimed as he pushed his glasses up his nose, “may I come along?”

“Sure!” Vivian nodded enthusiastically at Q. “I could spend an entire day there.”

Gareth raised an old pair of binoculars and fixed a shape through the window and onto the cobblestone street.

He then set it down and turned to Vivian. “Something’s wrong with the focusing knob, I need to fix this.”

“Here, let me take a look,” Q offered.

Gareth glared at the young man and replied curtly: “no, thank you. There’s a storage closet in the other room. I’ll just find another set.”

He stood up and gently placed his hand on Vivian’s shoulder: “Want to help me?”

“Yes, but shouldn’t we wait for Moneypenny and Bond to come relieve us?”

“Our target left 15 minutes ago and should have a tracking device.”

His explanation seemed to satisfy her and she followed him to a small, walk-in closet lined with musty shelves, the fluorescent light exposing a patina of dust. A vacuum with a limp bag was parked in the corner surrounded by boxes of tangled black copper wires.

As he was closing the door carefully, she grabbed his arm: “What are you doing? I don’t want to get trapped in here.”

“We’re not going to get trapped. This has no lock.”

“If you say so.” Her eyes darted around the confined space as if looking for an exit. “What the - is this what I think it is?” She stooped down to scoop up an accordion.

“Look!” Vivian, jet-lagged and feeling silly, “mama plays the squeezebox!”

He failed to stifle his laugh as the pleated folds heaved in and out of the lacquered box, the reedy sound jarring to his ears.

“Vivian, shh! We have to be quiet.”

“Why? Can they hear us?” She laid the instrument down gingerly.

“We both know you can get a little loud.” He grinned as he stepped closer to her.

“Only when you rise to the occasion,” she smirked before giggling at her own pun.

He leaned in to kiss her longingly, his open mouth over hers, not wanting to come up for air.

She suddenly pulled away and put her fingers to her lips. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked breathlessly, confused.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she smiled, trying to reassure. “It just tickles.”

“I thought you wanted me to grow a beard.”

“What? I never said that.”

“That night,” he hated hearing himself stammer, “when you - when we…you said the stubble was sexy.”

“It was! But I told you it was up to you. Don’t you remember?”

“Fine,” he surrendered, “I must have misunderstood. So you don’t like it.”

“I never said that.”

“Should I keep it then?  Or shave it off?”

“It’s your face, do what you want.”

He was surprised by how much that reply irritated him. The charm in her nonchalance - found in a breezy shrug or an affected eye-roll - had worn thin and left him cold. Vivian was a woman who could live with or without him. He would never admit that he wanted her to be possessive, that he’d feel a secret pride in telling others: “she made me do this.” Whatever “this” may be.

He bristled. “I don’t understand why you won’t give me a straight answer.”

“Gareth, what is this about? Why does it matter what I prefer?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “It matters because I care what you think.”

“Alright,” she considered her words, “I think it suits you, but beards can leave a burn.”

“I can figure out a way to keep it from being prickly.”

Holding his gaze, she rubbed his beard between her hands, tilting his face before pressing a chaste kiss against his lips.

“I like you the way you are. Beard or no beard.”

**Author's Note:**

> Indebted to middlemarch - relieved and glad it met her standards.
> 
> This 2-drabbles-in-1 fulfilled three prompts from two dear friends.
> 
> The title is from Andre Aciman's beautiful novel Call Me By Your Name.


End file.
